Disclaimer: I don’t own any of the characters(except Greg, who’s VERY breifly in this story)

Description: A Claire fic (based loosely on the events in the Claire Files (very loosely).) If you don’t have a loose understanding of what’s gone on there, you won’t understand this. (Hint: Go to 2280’s main page and click ‘Claire Stats.’ It’ll explain this fic pretty well)

Rating: PG.

Category: Angst.

“My God, what have you done?! Why did you do it?!”

“It’s better this way. Just go away. Shut up and go away.”

“How dare you? How dare you? You heartless sonofabitch, HOW DARE YOU? IT WAS MINE!!”

“You don’t understand! You can’t understand. Please, just go away.”

She’ll never understand why I did it. Never understand.

Flame’s flickering. Dark crinkles of ashes, the words burned out of existence.

Even if I could explain what I did to her...would I? It would hateful to explain it to her.

God, why am _I_ the one crying? Shouldn’t she be crying? It was her letter. She should cry. I did a horrible thing.

If I had to do it over again...I’d burn the letter again. It’s the only way. I couldn’t live knowing that letter was still in one peice.

I remember how it all started....

*FLASH*

Two children playing in the street. Clouds on the horizon. A dark figure walking down the street in a trench coat.

Cars everywhere. Noisy beasts, belching exhaust fumes.

I watched the dark figure in the trench coat. I wasn’t interested in him in any way, shape or form, but it was something to do.

The shot glass in my hand was cold, and the condensation running down the sides was trickling over the back of my hand. I ignored the tickling sliding cold wet feelings, and concentrated on the walking man in the trenchcoat.

I heard a song in the distance. A pounding beating song emanating from somebodies subwoofer. I could feel pain all around me. Pain within me.

Perhaps if my mutant gift was not the way it is I would be different. Perhaps if I could not feel the pain around me, the pain within would be less. Perhaps if I could feel a warmth—

But it’s not good thinking of that. The woman I love so much is so far away. So distant. Even though she lives just fourteen doors down from me, even though we are so close...she is so far away.

I can’t think whether this week, this particular day, she is in his arms or not. It doesn’t matter. He’ll only break her heart. I can see it. He can see it. She can’t, of course, but then, she couldn’t see that I would break her heart.

My sunglasses irritated me for no reason. Perhaps if I take them off, and keep my eyes closed the entire time they’re off, the irritation will pass, I thought to myself, and closed my eyes, sliding the glasses off.

And then I opened them.

Pain has always defined my existence. I can feel it all around me, oppressing me. They call it empathy; I call it a curse. I can shut it out, but not totally. Asking me to turn off my empathy is like asking any other man to turn off his heart. He can feel it beating away, but he cannot turn it off.

What I saw was undescribable. Perfect. Every time I see her, that’s what I think. She’s a perfect woman. In every sense, not just a physical one. Wild and untamed, gorgeus...

I could gush about her for hours. I will, with the slightest incentive. I’ve always been a romantic.

I couldn’t pick her emotions out from the jumble around me, but I could read them on her face. She was surprised to see me.

But she just walked on by, in the company of that fat friend of hers. Does he even realize how incredibly lucky he is, I wonder? I would give the world to be him. Even if I could never have her, if I could be her friend...that would make me happy. Or at least content.

As I drove home, feeling my bike thrum underneath me, I felt anger. Some my own, some from those around me.

Anger that she’s not mine. Anger that some little fat man who can’t even ... who isn’t even ... anger that she will be his friend. Anger that she will talk to him.

Yes, I was jealous. And petty.

When I got home, the letter was there. Jean was standing there holding it, bemused by it. “Someone sent Claire a letter.” She told me as I came in. “Scott thought I should check it for booby-traps.” She said the last with a half laugh, but it wasn’t funny.

Nobody should know she’s here. Nobody should know where to send that mail.

I took it from her. It had a return address. In Brazil. The name on the back was one word. Claire. Followed by the mansions address. Very straightforward.

I am not an honest man. I am a theif. A liar.

But I love her more than anything. So I set the letter back in Jean’s hand unopened, smiling at her. I gave her some banality, and slipped away.

The Mansion had a different pattern of emotions than the rest of the world. The pain was there, and heartbreaking sadness, and angst, but there is such a feeling of energy in the mansion...that night, as the stars twinkled, I could almost feel the energy crackling.

It was the letter disturbing them all, I knew. I could feel Bishop, so much more energy than the rest of us, prowling the halls. I could even feel Scott.

Don’t ever listen to what they tell you about that man. That he’s no fun. Boring. Sedate. No, what he is is controlled. Very controlled. There’s more energy burning inside of that man than anyone else at the mansion.

Not as much as her, of course. But she wasn’t there.

I tried to ignore the letter. But, you see, when she came back...that’s when it all got out of hand.

She came back late at night, and snuck into her room. She bypassed the front door, and the coffee table. Where the letter was.

When she came to breakfast in the morning, all eyes were on her. Especially mine, but for a very different reason.

She’s beautiful in the morning. She doesn’t do all the things that other women do—makeup, perhaps, or brushing their hair out for hours on end, beauty tricks of any sort, she disdains those—she simply ties her hair back and goes to work. In the morning loose strands of hair play across face, and her eyes are heavy with sleep.

She’s beautiful.

I had a bowl of cereal in my hands. The bowl was plastic, hard and ridged. The contents inside quivered as she entered the room. Shaking in time with my tortured hands.

“Did you see the letter?” Jean asked her.

“What letter?” She replied suspiciously.

My God, when she does that I just want to hold her close to me. When she strikes back against a world that has done her so much hurt. When she tries to protect herself. Like a wounded bird. I just want to protect her from all the hard things out there.

Even though I know she is harder than any hard thing out there. I just never want her to have cause to look over her shoulder again. Maybe I am a romantic fool.

“A letter for you came in the mail.” Said Scott carefully. “From Brazil. We checked it for booby-traps—poison, that sort of thing. The things one expects when dealing with your mail.”

That’s right; Scott was feeling happy that morning. I could feel it in the way he made small jokes. Even across the room I could feel his happiness.

Her face became flat. “Brazil?” Then she sat down, and began eating. No more mention of it was made at breakfast.

That’s when I knew. I knew, deep inside, that the letter was not good.

I could feel her soul eating itself. Her guilt pouring out. I could feel sadness and desolation.

And above all, I could feel pain.

I define myself with the pain of others. Light and carefree, that’s me! Why? Because I want to lighten your mood. I want you to laugh. When you laugh, it makes me feel good. When you cry, I want to cry.

Yes, now I’m talking about her again. I can ignore the world. Scott calls it irresponsible—I call it survival. If I gave a damn, it would kill me. I don’t give a damn about the world. So it hurts; so what? I do what I can. But I refuse to let it run me down.

But what about her? Can I not give a damn about her? No. Her, I bleed for.

I could feel cereal and milk sliding over my knuckles, over the edge of my bowl. Small flakes dripping between my fingers. Gritty bran sticking to my skin.

And I laughed and smiled.

Later, when it was night, I walked silently to the front hall. There stood Logan, staring at the letter.

Logan’s always been the closest thing I had to a friend in the mansion. He and I were always able to talk. I fear I messed that up when I fell in love with his daughter. But even then, when he looked at me, I could see that he trusted me.

“I don’t want to open it.” He said quietly. Then he walked away.

He didn’t want to betray her trust. But he would let me. That was implicit. I swallowed, lifting the letter.

It had scared her. That was clear. Not because it might hurt her. Nothing that could hurt her could scare her. The only thing that scared her was her friends.

But she had no real friends, aside from us. This little letter was about to harm her. This thin slice of paper...

I took it, sliding it into a duster pocket. I didn’t want to open it downstairs. I wanted to open it upstairs.

When I got to my room I sat down, and I deliberately opened her mail. As she never got mail, I knew this mail would be special to her. Bad or good, she would hold it close to herself. And probably never forgive me for opening it.

But I had to.

I read it slowly.

‘Dear Claire;

‘You probably don’t even remember me. How could you? It’s been so long. I’m sure you’ve found somebody new.

‘I saw you on TV, with the X-Men. I have connections who knew how to get mail sent to the famous X-Men. I hope this letter reaches you.

‘I bear you no ill will for leaving me as you did. I should have known better. I am truly sorry. I know it was many decades ago—but I still feel the hurt. I was a fool. I do not know if I meant anything to you, but know this; you meant the world to me.

‘I still do not approve of your job as a mercenary, but I know now that it is something you need, and I will never again ask you to stop.

‘Allejandro.’

In that moment, I knew. I knew why she was afraid, and I knew what I had to do.

A lighter was in pocket, from one of my bad habits. I pulled it out and applied it quickly to the letter. I dropped the letter on my floor, kneeling in front of it.

Suddenly she entered my room, slamming the door, as I worshipped those flames.

“Cajun, did you take my—” she never finished, staring at the little burning letter. I charged the randomly scattering bits, zaporizing them.

Flickering flames jumped, small bits of carbonized paper flitted around, cracking into smaller bits. Smoke charred my nostrils.

“My God, what have you done?! Why did you do it?!”

“It’s better this way. Just go away. Shut up and go away.”

“How dare you? How dare you? You heartless sonofabitch, HOW DARE YOU? IT WAS MINE!!”

“You don’t understand! You can’t understand. Please, just go away.”

She left.

I burned her letter. I can feel tears running down my face. Hot tears.

I can feel what she feels. She feels relief. She feels sadness. She feels pain.

I sift my hands through the ashes, smearing myself with the coal blackness.

That paper was more deadly than any hate could ever be. That paper could have hurt her as no physical wound ever could.

I hurt her with my love. I know what she feels, deep at night, when she’s alone. I know her. I love her. And I know how love can hurt.

Why do I cry? Because I did her a favor, and I killed him. Oh, I only burned his letter, but I know what it would be to come close to having Claire and be cut off. It’s death.

I cry because I burned his letter because he would have hurt her.

I cry because someday somebody will burn my letter.

I cry because I hurt the woman I love.

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